Fragments
by Flaignhan
Summary: He doesn't love her.


**A/N: **I woke up at 6am needing to write this. Here it is. It's a bit different to usual.

* * *

**Fragments**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

He doesn't love her.

The fact that he frequents her apartment is a testament to how large his heart swells in his chest and how tightly the muscles in the pit of his stomach pull when she has her warm, moist lips wrapped around his cock. She is talented, he'll give her that.

She never asks for him to hold her afterwards either. He likes that. Others have greater need for such trivialities, but she is quite content to give her pillow a few sharp whacks, beating it into shape before she slides down on the mattress, her back to him, and drifts off to sleep. This is one of the few things that irks him. She is fragile, and human, and she tires all too easily. If things were his way, he'd have her all night, until her moans become dry and cracked, her body breaking under his over and over and over. He makes up for it by staying until morning however. His usual trick is to depart before sunrise, but not with her. He wants to claim every last moment he can with her, one last fuck before he calls upon Heimdall to return him to Asgard. She doesn't even look at him when they finish, just breaks away from him and goes to take a shower.

That's his cue to leave. They have a routine, and while he usually finds routines to be boring, tiresome, and downright frustrating, their routine is nothing of the sort. Never has he been with someone who is so at ease with the more carnal side of things. Never has he been with someone who is so open minded, who greets any suggestion with a shrug of the shoulders and a smirk of indulgence. And never has he been with someone who can fuck him into submission, ride him until there are tears in his eyes, delaying and delaying and delaying until, like a pick axe breaking through the icy surface of a frozen lake, he comes, trembling beneath her, his hands gripping her soft flesh, fingers digging so deep into her that he leaves marks.

She never complains about that.

But then, he supposes, she leaves her marks too. Thin red scratches on his pale skin, bite marks, where her teeth have clamped just a little too tightly, causing him to hiss in a mixture of pain and ecstasy. She is, perhaps, the only woman in all nine realms who he would allow to treat him in such away. Sometimes, the little bitch even makes him beg for it.

But no, he doesn't love her.

He can tell that she beds other men when he's absent. He has other women, but that's by the by. He knows, because there is something in her eyes, those first few moments when he's inside of her, a flash of relief, a relief that he feels himself. Relief that it won't be another let down courtesy of some mediocre bedfellow who just won't _leave_ in the morning. Sometimes he considers becoming exclusive to her, to save himself the disappointment, but when there is ale in his belly and the fires are spreading warmth right down to his bones, when one of the village wenches settles herself into his lap and whispers sweet promises of bliss into his ear, he finds it hard to deny such a thing. And of course, he is always disappointed. She has ruined other women for him. And, he supposes, that is just how she wants it to be.

"I'm going away for a few weeks," she says, in that husky purr of hers. When he's feeling bitter towards her (usually after she has had him _her way_) he tells himself that he shouldn't worry himself with a woman who sounds like she's constantly battling a head cold. The rest of the time, however, each syllable she utters causes the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end, a small shiver tingling its way down to the base of his spine.

"Where?" he demands. He doesn't take kindly to her sudden disappearances. At least, this time, she has given him a warning, he supposes.

"None of your business," she replies, settling herself down on the mattress, facing away from him, her crimson curls splayed across the pillow. He scowls, displeased with being spoken to in such a manner. In Asgard, _everything_ is his business, and so it should be down here. She doesn't feel the same way it seems.

"Well I'll just have to see you when you return," he snaps. He can tell from the sound of her sigh that she is rolling her eyes, and it infuriates him. "When _do you_ get back?"

"I don't _know_," she replies exasperatedly. "But when I do, I'll need a few days' space. I'll probably be a little sore."

"There are no wounds that I cannot soothe," he says, a smirk working its way onto his lips. He reaches out a hand, placing it on the side of her rib cage, and slowly moves it down to her waist, his fingers savouring every inch of her smooth skin. There is a freckle on the skin covering her lowermost rib, just a small speck, and he covers it with his thumb. Although it is small, it is a blot on an otherwise perfect landscape, and it irks him.

"Believe it or not," she tells him, a hint of amusement in her tone. "There are some days when I just _don't_ wanna fuck you."

"Impossible," he replies, tugging her towards him and flipping her onto her back. She looks up at him, quirking one eyebrow, her full lips still swollen from their most recent enjoyment of one another. He takes her scepticism as a challenge, and ducks below the bedclothes, parting her thighs. It's not long before her hands are clutching at his hair, her legs locked around his shoulders keeping him in place as she sighs his name again and again and again.

He is certain he doesn't love her.

* * *

This one giggles. There is nothing behind the eyes, blue, bright, the sort that would have normal men tripping over their feet for her. He is no normal man, and so those blue eyes do nothing for him. He likes to be able to read a woman's secrets in her eyes, every emotion, every insecurity, and he wants to _know_ when he feels so good to them that they can't even _think_. Unfortunately, it appears that this one _never_ thinks. There are no secrets, no emotions, and it is as though she exists merely in the present, a goldfish. A goldfish with a cunt, admittedly, but it isn't doing much for him. He likes it better when he knows that he could be killed at any moment.

There is only one woman who can make him feel like that however. Only one woman who can inject him with fear and lust simultaneously, and she is even further away from him than she normally is.

This one's long hair gets in the way. She is constantly conscious of it, and it offends him, how she is more preoccupied with her hair than she is with pleasuring him. He doesn't give a damn about her hair, would cut it off to her shoulders were it not for the fact that he is certain she would cry, and he would be left to finish himself off. That prospect is, by all accounts, even worse than an unsatisfying slapping together of flesh, punctuated by breathy shrieks and needy kisses.

When she falls against his side afterwards, wrapping her arms around him and resting her face against his chest, he thinks it may not have been such a bad idea after all. At least he could have been left in peace and quiet with visions of red hair, heart shaped faces and soft, husky moans. He might have actually enjoyed that.

He will admit that he yearns for her body, but he still doesn't love her.

The sound of heavy footfalls break into his thoughts, and he sits up suddenly, the girl letting out a huff of disapproval as she is cast to one side. It is far too late for visitors, and the staff know better than to disturb him when he has brought back company, no matter how tedious said company might be. Those steps do not speak of delicate domestic staff with soft soled shoes, however. They speak of thick, battle-worn boots, of a tall, strong owner, of urgency and purpose.

He doesn't care that there is no knock. The door simply crashes open, and Heimdall stands there, his golden armour glinting in the candlelight.

"What news, Heimdall?" Loki asks, reaching down to the floor to fetch his trousers and pulling them quickly on.

"Agent Romanov, my liege," Heimdall replies in his gravelly tone.

"She's back?" Even he can't deny that there is a hint of hopefulness in his tone. He is _itching_ for her. He has a good mind to simply have Heimdall bring her to him, sweep her off the face of her own planet so he can have his way with her until he is satisfied enough for her masters to send her away again.

"No my liege," Heimdall says with a heavy sigh, taking off his helmet and turning it over in his hands. A light has switched off from behind his eyes, and where one can normally see infinity in his irises, Loki can see nothing at all.

"Then what?" Loki demands. "Then _what_?"

"She is dead, my liege."

Numbness spreads through him like a poison.

"I'm sorry, my liege."

The news settles, piercing through him like a broadsword.

He takes a swig of ale, and tells himself it doesn't matter. After all, he doesn't love her.

* * *

He storms through the glass doors, kicking though the security barriers, ignoring the sound of guns being loaded. If they think he is intimidated by their pathetic little weapons then they are sorely mistaken. When he realises he doesn't know where he is going, he stops, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

"Where is Director Fury?" he demands in a cold, hard voice.

Nobody answers.

He stares down the barrels of a dozen guns, into a dozen pairs of dead eyes that belong to the dull, rule abiding minions of SHIELD.

"If I have to ask you again," he says slowly, clenching his fists at his sides, "I will lay waste to this entire building."

There is a soft ding, and he turns around to see the metal doors of one of the lifts slide apart, revealing the familiar face of the man he seeks. He hasn't changed one bit, in fact, it doesn't look like he's even changed his clothes, certainly not his coat, the same old rag of Midgardian leather that he wears like armour. He fixes Loki with a hard gaze, that one beady eye attempting to read everything from his face.

"I want to see her."

Fury shakes his head.

"I _want_ to _see her_," he says again, his voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. He will not believe she is gone until he sees the evidence himself, will not have such a low opinion of her that he will simply take hearsay as fact. She is not a fragile woman, she is not a coward, and she is _not_ an easy kill. She can handle herself in any situation, regardless of her opponent's advantage in strength or weaponry.

"You come into _my building_," Fury says in a low voice, taking a step towards Loki, the shattered glass of the security barriers crunching under his boots. "On the day that my _finest agent_ gets delivered to me in a _body bag_, and you make _demands_?"

"I need to see her," Loki tells him, biting down on his lower lip when a flicker of grief breaks its way through to the surface. He _isn't_ grieving.

He isn't grieving because he doesn't love her.

"Why?"

The question grates on him. He has grown far too used to having his requests met in Asgard, which is no bad thing. It feels like a slight, this mere human questioning him in such a way, acting as though he is the one with all the power. But, Loki supposes, at this moment, he is. Fury holds the keys to seeing her, and he must respect that, even if it means swallowing his pride.

"Because I _refuse_ to believe that she's gone until I see evidence to the contrary."

"And why does that matter to you?" Fury asks, his eyebrows drawing together in a deep frown. "Why do you give a _damn_?"

He releases a breath and looks down at the floor, running a hand through his hair and squeezing his eyes tightly shut as his brain offers up an unwelcome memory of _her hand_ in his hair, of dim lights and soft breaths and skin on skin.

"Please," he says quietly. It is the first time in a long time that he has said the word to anyone other than her. It feels wrong on his lips, and leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

The door leading towards the staircase crashes open, and Thor stands there, in his ridiculous Midgardian clothes, breathing heavily as though he has just run all the way from the top floor.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Loki demands, furious that of all the places in all the realms, Thor has to be here, today. He cannot handle dealing with this in front of him, cannot handle how Thor will be determined to play the protective big brother role. Where was he when Natasha died? Where were any of them?

"Jane is sharing research with Dr Banner…" Thor says slowly. "Not today, though Loki, please, not today."

"Not today _what_?" he demands, white hot rage spilling through him, spreading to his fingertips, his veins on fire.

"Agent Romanov has been…" Thor trails off, his words choking in his throat, and he looks down at the floor, his large hand gripping the doorframe tightly.

"Why do you think I am _here_?" Loki says through gritted teeth. He turns back to Fury, no longer having the patience to even look at his brother. "If you don't let me see her, I will burn this building to the ground."

Fury doesn't say a word, but turns around, heading towards the stairs. Thor moves aside, and Loki follows after Fury, barging past Thor without looking at him. He doesn't need his lectures today, nor does he need his unfounded accusations. He is here for one thing, and one thing only.

They travel down the stairs quickly, Thor lumbering behind them, descending twelve whole floors before they finally reach their destination. The corridors are white, and there is a horrible smell in the air that burns the back of his throat like cheap wine. He knows they are close when he sees Agent Coulson talking quietly to another suited agent, outside one of the many doors. Coulson's eyes narrow at them, his hand reaching for his gun.

"I'm not here for you," Loki tells him coolly, and Fury opens the door that they're guarding without saying a word, entering the room, holding the door open for Loki. Thor tries to follow, but Loki slams the door in his face. This is not a moment he wishes to share with his brother.

There is a wall with several square metal doors set into it, elaborate electronic locks keeping them closed. Fury swipes a card in front of one of the locks and it emits an inappropriately cheerful bleep, before he yanks open the door and slides out a metal tray, bearing a corpse draped in a white sheet. Fury doesn't look at her, just simply reaches out for the edge of the sheet and pulls it back, revealing her face.

Acid rises in his throat, his stomach clenching. Her hair has lost its vividness, as though it has been whitewashed, leaving it a miserable shadow of its former self. Her eyes are closed, her lips tinged blue, and when he lowers his eyes to her throat, the throat that he has kissed a thousand times, he nearly vomits. The slash is deep, and clean. She didn't struggle.

"What happened?" he breathes, his fingers reaching out to stroke her hair. She doesn't seem real. She seems like a dummy, a fake. This _can't_ be her. She would never have succumbed so easily.

"There were a lot of them," Fury says quietly. "One of them managed to stick her with a syringe. They paralysed her."

"And then they slit her throat?"

Fury shakes his head. "They left me a message first." He pulls down the sheet to reveal a set of crudely carved letters, marked in red across the top of her chest.

_F.A.O. DIRECTOR FURY_

"They sent her via courier," Fury continues. "Had one of the girls on reception sign for her."

Loki closes his eyes. He doesn't want to hear anymore. He cannot bear it. Such barbarism is too far, even for him, regardless of any personal ties. It is _too much_. If the lot of them couldn't take her while she still had all her faculties, then they should never have stooped so low as to relieve her of them and _then_ murder her. It is sheer cowardice. He will not stand for it.

He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly as he looks down at her pale cadaver. He spies the freckle on her ribcage and brushes his thumb against it. What he would give to feel heat in that skin again, to lay in her bed, glaring at that freckle that seems so insignificant now she has been taken from him.

"You repaired Agent Coulson," he says slowly. "You repaired him, and he stands out there, bold as brass as if death never touched him."

"I can't," Fury says, before Loki can even make his request.

"You bring her back!" Loki yells, slamming his fist against the slab on which her corpse lays. "You bring her back right now!"

"I _can't_," Fury says again, the patience in his tone dwindling.

"Liar!" Loki screams, storming across the room, needing to get rid of the excess energy building up inside of him before he does something that will damage her. She's suffered enough, and he will not lose his temper within range of her. He will not add insult to injury. But all the same he wants to tear the walls apart, destroy this building, destroy this whole _wretched world_ and everyone on it. He slams his fist into the wall, the cement crumbling under the force of the impact, but it's not enough. He hits it again and again and again until he breaks through to the other side, and he doesn't pay any notice when the door opens.

Thor grabs him from behind, his hands seizing Loki's wrists, preventing him from doing any more damage, but Loki struggles against him, trying to throw him off. The pair of them stagger over towards the large metal table in the centre of the room, and Loki manages to grab a shiny scalpel from a metal tray of surgical instruments. He buries the blade deep into the back of Thor's hand, and though it is not enough to do any real damage, it is enough for Thor to let out a grunt of pain and release him.

Loki shoves him away for good measure, the scalpel still embedded in his hand, then turns back to the table, raising his boot and slamming it into the edge of it, sending the table flying towards the wall. The crash is loud, though not, apparently, loud enough to wake the dead.

She lays there, still as a statue, her body desecrated.

He sinks to his knees, covering his face with his trembling hands.

He doesn't love her. _He doesn't love her_.

"Can't or _won't_?" he asks at last, dropping his hands to his knees and gazing up at Fury. He has never felt so tired in all his life. It's as though the cowards that slew Natasha have taken every last ounce of his energy as well as hers. He feels hollow, as though one sharp tap might shatter him into a thousand fragments.

"The chemical we used as a part of Agent Coulson's recovery is buried under a thousand tons of rubble," Fury sighs. "The facility was destroyed."

"So _move the rubble_," Loki says, getting to his feet. "What is the _use_ in having this brute at your disposal if you will not _use him_?" He gestures towards Thor, who pulls the scalpel from the back of his hand and drops it to the floor with a clatter. He looks towards Fury now, apparently not opposed to shifting boulders in order to find a needle in a haystack.

"That's not the only thing stopping us," Fury adds. He glances down at Natasha, his serious facade dropping for a moment, his brow creasing, the brightness in his one eye building. "When we did what we did to Agent Coulson, she was opposed to it. She said to me that if I ever dare pulled any of that shit with her, she'd break every damn bone in my body."

"I don't _care_."

"It's not what she _wants_," Fury says impatiently. "She doesn't _want it_."

"_I_ want it!" He knows the words to be untrue even before they leave his mouth. Of course he wants her back, but not against her will. He doesn't know what kind of dark magic SHIELD used to revive Agent Coulson, but if Natasha knew and Natasha didn't want it, then it would be nothing short of monstrous to forge ahead with such things. What he really wants is to be able to go back in time, to convince her not to go, to stay with him instead, or else send someone _else_ on the mission, someone who wouldn't be missed.

Not that he misses her. He doesn't love her.

"I'll kill them," he murmurs, looking anywhere but at her. He closes his eyes and smacks the heel of his palm against his forehead as he is tormented with the memory of her scent, of the weight of her body on top of his own, of the taste of her flesh.

"Be my guest," Fury says.

"Don't _mock me_," he hisses, opening his eyes and striding towards Fury until they are toe to toe. He doesn't move an inch, doesn't blink under Loki's harsh glare, but then he tilts his head to one side and says two words.

"I'm _serious_."

And he is. Before Loki knows what is happening, they have rolled her body away and shut the tiny door on it, sealing her in. Then, he is several floors above, in the land of the living, the office boasting wide windows and a warmth that doesn't penetrate him.

"This is everything we have," Fury says, sliding a brown file towards him. He flips it open, assimilating the information as fast as he can. He memorises locations, coordinates, names, crimes, faces. When he is done he slams the file down on the desk with a thud, Fury watching him, his hands clasped together as though in prayer.

"Make 'em pay," Fury says.

He doesn't take orders, not from anybody. This one, however, he will gladly acquiesce to. He gives a sharp nod of his head, but then his eyes land on a second file, resting closer to Fury. It has been stamped with red ink. In large, bold letters, there is one word.

_INACTIVE_

He blanches at the photograph attached to the file with a paperclip and reaches out for it. Fury pulls the file away, but Loki narrows his eyes, then plucks the photograph from the front of the file. It is creased and dog eared, and the black and white print fails to capture her vivid red hair or her sparkling green eyes. What it _does_ capture is the cold shrewd expression that he knows so well. Her left eyebrow is arched, her eyes staring right at the camera, her lips slightly parted as though she knows something that he doesn't.

"Can I keep this?"

Fury hesitates, then gives a single nod, and Loki tucks the photograph into his pocket, turning away and heading for the door. Just as he's about to leave, Thor throws out an arm, blocking his path.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He will save his malice for her killers. He will not waste it on the useless lump he is forced to call a brother.

"One question," Thor says, his voice quiet.

Loki opens his eyes and meets his gaze. He has been affected by her death too, grief oh so apparent in those blue eyes of his. He has always worn his heart on his sleeve, and this is no different. He has no right to mourn her though. He barely knew her.

"Did she love you?"

It feels like a dagger through the heart. He has never considered such an idea before, and to have it slapped in his face mere moments after he has laid eyes upon her lifeless, broken body is nothing short of cruel. Were he not so intent on finding those responsible, he would rip Thor's head from his shoulders and launch it out of the window.

"Don't be ridiculous," he says softly in reply. "Of course she didn't."

* * *

**The End**


End file.
